Men on Sale at Match.com

I hate to shop, and I especially hate to shop during a big sale when the stores are mobbed with crazed/psycho bargain hunters. “Last Call” at Neimans almost sent me back to therapy. I was dazed, confused and sweaty rifling through the endless racks of merchandise and even started to question my sexuality. However, my mother  is an “extreme” shopper. I witnessed her dive and actually disappear into a pile of clothes and appear 10 minutes later waving a black sweater. She has no fear and very good lung capacity. I am cheap, which is a Catch-22, as I disdain shopping yet am always tempted by a sale. So, when I saw Match.com was running a sale, I decided to try it again. Men on sale… hmmmm, now that sounded a lot better than retail. In my experience, I always ended up returning “full” priced men.

Yet, in my heart of hearts, what could I expect from a “marked-down” man? Was it “last call” at Match.com? Everyone must go to make room for the new winter line of guys? I got nervous thinking the remainder bin would be filled with short, beefy, and bald. But like I said, I’m cheap so I clicked “join.” Any seasoned shopper would have rolled up her sleeves and started plowing through the racks and racks of men. Armed with antacids and Cabernet, I judiciously read through the emails that came my way. I mistrusted misspellings, poor sentence structure, and use of the so-called word “irregardless” as I knew these sale boys were not for an English major. I hand picked a few marked-down guys and ventured out for wine/coffee. I hoped against all odds that there was a forgotten “Armani” man left at the bottom of the bin, and if I could be like Mom and dive down there, I’d find him.

Ah yes, I quickly remembered why I don’t shop sales. There was “Appetizer Man” who ate them all himself and didn’t ask why I wasn’t eating as he was too busy wanting to know if I had money or assets. “Mr. Cock-eyed Conservative” repeatedly called Berkeley, Bezerkely . “Goldfinger” who wore more jewelry than I have ever owned. “Mr. Whoopsie I Forgot” who wrote we had so much in common I should call him. I emailed back to remind him he took me out two years ago… damaged goods? I especially liked “No Eye Contact Man” who was so busy looking around he wouldn’t have noticed had I left. I did get a lovely flattering note from a man my son’s age. Not remotely tempting for fear he might slip and call me “Mom” – too Oedipal even for an English major.

The sale ends in January, but I have shopping fatigue. I hope Mom isn’t too disappointed that I don’t have the lung capacity or nerve to dive in the sale bin again. Now where did I put the Tums?